SM2

I was on business in Worthing yesterday; Brighton's scruffy little brother. My meeting finished earlier than I thought so I rang my cousin Suzie who lives up the road in Hove and invited myself round for a cuppa; we'd not seen each other since before Covid so it was great to catch-up. She still smiles when I call her Suzie; she was always Suzie when we were kids, but now she's a grown up and everyone calls her Susan. Except me. Oh, and we had lemon drizzle cake too.

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Today's blog post was brought to you by a sixty-one year old man. Normal service will be resumed, I promise.

Fox News

I'm trying not to dwell on the never ending torrent of bad news threatening to engulf every last one of us; though if I have a little weep later I'm hoping you'll cut me some slack.

Instead I want to share this little snippet with you: Suzie, my Brighton dwelling cousin, has a regular nighttime caller. And so tame is this beautiful creature that apparently he comes right up to her and gently rubs his nose up against her hand. As the Americans would say - pretty neat, huh? 

The Regrettes - Fox on the Run (2017)

We only steal them

Beer by Black Donkey (legs c/o Suzie Medhurst)

In the 18th century the good folk of Roscommon (Rossies) would raid their neighbours in East Galway and steal their sheep. No big deal; I can think of worse sheep related crimes.

Fast forward 200+ years and, as part of the burgeoning craft beer scene in Ireland, Black Donkey Brewing are commemorating this ancient pastime with a sensational beer called, you guessed it, Sheep Stealer. On the pilgrimage to our maternal grandmother's home last weekend (a weekend filled with joy and sadness), a number of these bad boys were consumed.

A big thank you to Gleeson's for making our stay both a memorable and poignant one.

Missing cousins

I hadn't seen Suzie in nearly 40 years. But about two years ago I received an email that contained in its subject box the words 'Are you the John Medd that used to live in Grantham?' The email read 'If you are,  I have a photo of us together and you're wearing a most remarkable shirt.' I may be paraphrasing. And it was signed 'Suzie, your cousin - though everyone calls me Susan these days.' I simply replied 'Yes.'

That shirt

The next thing I knew another email arrived enclosing a photograph of us taken at a family wedding in 1975 - the last time we saw each other. And of course I remembered Suzie (and the shirt) vividly. Suzie not least because whenever we visited her I was always struck dumb by her bedroom: it was, quite literally, covered from top to bottom in Marc Bolan posters. Walls, ceiling, mirrors, every square inch of her room was given over to The Jeepster himself. The shirt because, as I told her when she came up on Friday for a 24 hour smash and grab visit, I loved that shirt so much I'm actually thinking of going to a tailor, with the photograph, and asking him to reproduce it - albeit several sizes larger.

Anyway, we stayed up 'til 7 o'clock in the morning drinking wine spodeeodee and generally playing catch up. But by the time the sun came up I'd be hard pushed to tell you most of what we'd been talking about. Though I can remember, quite clearly, her telling me that she went to see Marc Bolan and T Rex in the spring of 1977 not long before he wrapped his Mini round a tree in Barnes. She said he was back on form and it was also the tour he'd got The Damned supporting him. Sorry Suzie, you're going to have to come back again and tell me all that other stuff again.